


Between an Aching Head and an Aching World

by glowstick_of_destiny



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4849862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowstick_of_destiny/pseuds/glowstick_of_destiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not really sure what Jim will do when he gets here. He's never entirely sure where he stands with this man. Which, if he's honest with himself, is probably half of the allure. A prize and a puzzle all in one; a man he can have time and time again without ever really making his own.</p><p>My contribution to the Gobblepot Week 2015: Day 1: Favorite Scene</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so my favorite scene is probably the one on the docks where Jim's ordered to kill Oswald (shut up, it's /iconic/) buuuut I already did a recap of that in Heartlines. So here's a drabble inspired by one of my runner-up favorite the scenes (that time when Oswald, cold-blooded killer, was playing in the bath).
> 
> Also, I may have woken up and been like, oh! It's the first day of the Gobblepot challenge! I should write a thing! and written this all today, mostly this evening. So don't expect too much.

Oswald leans his head back against the tiles, lets the warmth of the bath water wash over him. Tries to get his muscles to relax, which does fuckall. But the water's nice. 

It's been a year, he realizes with a jolt, completely undermining the little progress he's made towards relaxing. 

A year ago, he was Maroni's golden goose and Falcone's pawn. A year ago, he sat in a bath, freezing cold because the hot water at his mother's house was as unreliable as his luck, and lukewarm water would do nothing for the pain in his leg, and told his mother that he'd found James Gordon. A cop who wasn't like the others, who didn't fulfill all the suspicions his mother had warned him about, in outsiders in general and in cops in particular. A friend. The first he would dare call that in years. Because surely he could call James a friend. Te man had saved his life. Twice. At great cost to himself, and when it would have been so easy to kill him, or to sit idly by and let him be killed by another. That was friendship, wasn't it? 

What a fool he'd been. So level-headed when it came to business matters and so judgmental of others who let reason desert them entirely when someone batted their eyelashes at them. And yet he'd gotten entirely swept away himself at the first sign of kindness from a man he barely knew. 

Jim hadn't been his friend. Not then. He'd been tied to an inflexible and outdated code of honor like a chain and ball, and Oswald had just happened to have been up against a more morally repulsive foe. What he took for consistency had been pure luck. 

He'd figured that out the hard way, soon enough. The rebuffed invitation. The pattern of Jim only visiting when he needed a favor, and the favors never being reciprocated. The curt conversations. The clandestine meetings. The way Jim looked at him, like even their tenuous association was unbearable. 

And now... now he's the king of Gotham. 

He and Jim still aren't friends, per se. It's difficult to say what they are to each other on a good day. And today is decidedly not a good one. Not with the sharp pain shooting up his leg and no proper medication at hand. Jim had had Advil in his medicine cabinet, but as he had suspected, that did absolutely nothing for the pain. Not with his tolerance built up from a steady stream of much stronger prescriptions. 

He's not really sure what Jim will do when he gets here. He's never entirely sure where he stands with this man. Which, if he's honest with himself, is probably half of the allure. A prize and a puzzle all in one; a man he can have time and time again without ever really making his own. 

It had been a surprise, the first time. An innocuous negotiation of favors that hadn't been going to Jim's liking. Largely because Jim had wanted something for nothing, and Oswald had pulled the wool from over his eyes and stopped giving him just that. Jim had reacted, predictably, with manhandling, driving Oswald up against the wall, boxing him in. His own pulse racing and shortness of breath, that had been expected. In his precarious position, he didn't have the luxury of neglecting introspection. He knew he'd wanted something besides friendship from Jim for a while now. But the hardness he'd felt against his hip in a place that meant it definitely wasn't a gun, _that_ had been a surprise. 

It was perhaps unsurprising that Jim liked things rough, as fast and hard as they could manage. That he wanted to be _fucked_ , face pressed against the wall, or bent over a table or Oswald's desk; that he asked for it tongue-tied and blushing the first time, then with a lop-sided grin and a glint in his eye as he grew bolder, secure in the knowledge that Oswald would give him exactly what he asked for, _that_ had been a surprise. Not that he'd been complaining. 

But Oswald can't do that for him today. With his leg in this condition, he can barely stand, much less fuck Jim into the nearest surface that could bear his weight. He doubts Jim will turn him out into the street, his moral compass dented and tarnished by his time spent in Gotham this far, perhaps, but still firmly in place. But he honestly can't say what Jim will do when he finds him here, dutifully present at the prearranged time and place, but incapable of making good on their agreed terms. 

The knock on the door startles him. And his body's quick movement, in turn, disturbs the still surface of the water, splashing water over the edge of the tub. He hadn't heard the clunk of a briefcase being thrown unceremoniously onto the floor that usually marked Jim's arrival. 

He's faced near certain death, multiple times, at that, he reminds himself. Surely can survive the killing blow to an arrangement that he knew was more likely to result in betrayal or mortal injury than mutual satisfaction and longevity. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to finish it so I could publish it as a oneshot tonight, but midnight snuck up on me. The second part's almost finished and should be up soon.
> 
> I'm happy to chat in the comments (or at the Gotham side blog I finally made-- sometimetodayforpreference on tumblr), but please, no spoilers from the second season premiere, as I haven't seen it yet. Thanks!
> 
> Oh, and the title's a lyric from a Fall Out Boy song ("it's not a side effect of the cocaine, i am thinking it must be love").


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write uncommonly slowly, apparently, even when I'm making an effort not to edit at all because it's supposed to be a drabble and it was supposed to be finished already.

"Oswald?" Jim's voice, coming from just on the other side of the bathroom door. "Are you okay?" That was a great question, really. A better one being how he ought to respond. And then, "You haven't been shot or anything, right? 'Cause if you had, you'd be getting proper medical attention, not trying to patch yourself up in my bathroom?" Voice rough, but lanced through with concern. 

Oswald chooses his words carefully. Honesty is best, here, he decides; Jim will know the truth of the matter soon enough. But the delivery is still of utmost importance. 

"No, I haven't been shot; come in and see for yourself." He's not about to dive into a dangerous conversation without a visual on Jim, some way to gauge how he's taking everything. 

Jim opens the door tentatively. Oswald offers a slights inclination of his head in response to Jim's slack-jawed expression. "I took the liberty of running a bath. No need injuries, as you can see. Just the exacerbation of an old one due to an unexpected over-exertion." 

"But you're not usually-- did someone do this to you? To make it worse?" He gestures vaguely to Oswald, his leg, the bath. 

Oswald fights the urge to plaster on a smile, allows himself to grimace. "That bastard Donati--" 

Jim's nostrils flare, jaw clenches. Angry on Oswald's behalf. Maybe it shouldn't be a surprise; it's not as though he had any illusions about Jim's ability to control his emotions, whatever they might be at any given time. 

"What did he do?" His voice comes out as a growl, and it's difficult not to let that alone affect him. He settles for not letting it's effect show. 

But it is. To see some injustice against him as the subject of that righteous anger. To see Jim's fists balled and his arm twitching with nervous energy that says he'd rather that fist were connecting with the face of the offending party. Not just because they had done something morally reprehensible, no; because they had wronged _him_. It sends a thrill up his spine. 

"Before, I'd thought he was simply oblivious, his intellect and powers of observation being what they are. That he'd seen my gait, knew of my injury, but that it hadn't occurred to him that it fucking _hurts_ for me to walk. But I'd underestimated him." He smiles bitterly. "He knows exactly what he's doing, deciding we need to discuss business over an afternoon stroll in the park, deciding we need to meet in places isolated enough that one cannot bring a car anywhere close by." 

"That fucking _bastard_. How dare he--" Jim stops himself. Breathes. Gives Oswald a half-smile. "But you'll figure something out. What did you tell me once? 'When you know what a man loves, you know what can kill him.'" Oswald hadn't thought he'd even been listening. "So what's this Donati guy love?" 

Sympathy. Pity. Anger to spare. A quick and clumsy effort to change the topic of conversation. Those reactions he'd been prepared for. Not this. "Are you offering to help me plan a murder, Detective?" 

"Absolutely not. But I might just help you get back at him." He grins. "In a _non-violent_ way," he adds quickly. 

Oswald can't help but smile back. He wants to chase every last drop of this, this version of Jim, smiling at him, bantering like they don't spend their days in opposite sides of a war, listening to his troubles as if he gives a damn about any of it. Like he gives a damn about Oswald outside of his capacity to get him favors and get him off. 

And yet he doesn't. When this ends-- and it will end, because the spell will break, Jim will come to his senses and remember who he's talking to and that they don't _do_ this-- it will be one more memory that hurts to remember. 

In the end, the pragmatist in him wins out, and at least he can take some small pride in that. That he isn't so lost in this as to preclude self-preservation. 

"I shouldn't have kept you. I can't today. Not with..." He gestures to his leg. Braces one hand on the edge of the tub, grits his teeth, preparing for the pain that will come when he leaves the water, and again when he puts weight on his leg. He looks away. "I should be on my way." 

And then Jim's hand is on his arm, grip strong, painful almost. "Wait. Please."

He knows his eyes are probably betraying more of his emotions than he'd like when he returns his gaze to meet Jim's. But he can't help the hurt, the shame he feels. And he can't _not_ look, can't not take the only route to defiance, to salvaging some scrap of dignity in the situation. "What more could you possibly want from me?" 

Jim sucks in a breath. At a loss for words, most likely; caught between a moral obligation to be polite about this, handle the situation as delicately as someone as careless with words as he is can, and the truth, the sinking feeling in his gut, the knowledge that Oswald is right. It's some small consolation to Oswald that he won't be the only casualty of this, won't be the only one who's made to suffer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Gobblepot week, kids! I'm happy to be part of it and even happier to see the outpouring of new fics and art so far:)


	3. Chapter 3

Oswald knows it can't possibly hurt Jim as much as it will hurt him. It won't even come close. So maybe he's tempted to twist the knife. Just a bit. 

Jim still hasn't been able to piece together the right words, so Oswald cuts in. "Please, spare me whatever version if our arrangement you repeat to yourself so you can sleep at night. You only want me for fucking and intel, and neither's on the menu today." There's color rising in Jim's cheeks, though it's difficult to say if it's from anger or shame, and there's tension written in every line of his body. Normally, these would be warning signs that he should slow down, redirect. But not today. Not now. "I don't need your _apologies_ and I certainly don't want a pity fuck. And I'm sure I can't fathom what else you could possibly want from me, could possibly have left to say to me right now." 

"Whatever you're willing to give." 

"I'm sorry?" 

"I want," Jim says, face earnest, voice raw, "Whatever you're willing to give me. Anything and everything. I'll take it." 

"That's--" That's not fair. Jim's changing the rules in the middle of the game, and even fast as he is thinking on his feet, he needs time to recalibrate to the new playing field. "That's not how this works." 

"No, it isn't. But I'd like it to be." 

"Since when?" he splutters. Not his finest moment, but there's a critical mass of bullshit and personal injuries physical and emotional he can take before his higher executive functioning just shuts down and he goes on autopilot. And he was already teetering on the edge of that precipice before Jim knocked on the door. 

"Does it matter?" 

For fuck's sake. "I have a right to know--" 

"Why would I have told you? I know I've done some stupid shit, but I like to think I've learned something from it. You think admitting a major liability to someone like you sounds like a good idea?" 

" _Someone like me_?" He feels the color rising in his cheeks, any sense of control over his words or tone far gone. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

"Someone who could destroy me. Completely." 

The words are a knife to his gut. "You really believe that-- I know I have blood on my hands, that I will always fall short of your _golden standard_ for morality, but to think that I would want to--" 

"No, that's not-- I know what you've done. I fucking _know_ all of that, okay, and I'm still here, aren't I?" 

"Then why--" 

"Because the stakes are too goddamn high. If I let you get any closer-- if this went south, and it will, it's just a matter of time--" a shaky breath, and he starts again, "It would destroy me, and I'm sure between the two of us, we'd take half the city down with us. Chaos, rivers of blood in the streets, all over again." 

"I hardly think--" 

"You still have no idea what I'm capable of, do you? Even when things started falling apart with Barbara, when I really thought she was in danger-- know what the first thing I did was? Go after the mayor, Falcone, no real plan, just a gun full of ammo and one man for backup. And I would've gone alone, too. Didn't care if I lived or died. Didn't really expect to live through it. 

"And even after everything, when the Ogre took her? I beat a man I barely knew bloody, did it with my bare hands and no regrets, because he wouldn't tell me what I needed to find her." 

He'd know about the attempt to take down Falcone, of course. But Jim's reasons for it, and the other incident-- those shed a new light on the man. But right now, he doesn't have the patience to reflect, to let this new knowledge inform his next words. "Why tell me at all then? Why now?" 

Jim looks away, doesn't say anything for a moment that feels like an hour. "Because I'm selfish. And weak." He takes a deep breath, lets it out. His eyes are fever-bright when he looks back up at Oswald. "Because I'd rather let the city burn than sit here and watch you suffer." 

Oswald's forgotten how to breathe. Or maybe it's just the air in the room's suddenly gone thin. 

His voice comes out much smaller than he intended it to when he speaks. "Do you mean that?" 

"Don't I sound like I do?" And then, relenting, "Yeah. I do." 

And Oswald's heartbeat, not exactly steady before, takes off like a bottle rocket. Because this is uncharted territory, stumbling through a field of land-mines in the dark. 

Because that's the closest he's going to get to a confession of love, and perhaps even better. But for all that, Jim hasn't said what, if anything, he's willing to do about it. And Oswald's been surviving by his wits in this city long enough to know the devil's in the details, that the desire and the act are two entirely different animals. 

"So what now?" 

"Well, I'm going to kiss you," Jim says, smile playing at his lips, "if that's okay by you." 

"Please." His voice sounds infuriatingly breathless to his own ears. 

And then Jim's leaning toward the edge of the tub, bringing a hand to rest on the back of his neck. Pulling Oswald's face to his, closing the last few inches between them. 

And then Jim's kissing him. Languid and sweet, like they have all the time in the world. He tamps down on his impatience, the part of him that wants more already. Because this is their first kiss. And he wants to remember it perfectly. 

There was no time for that before, no need. They didn't even undress half the time. Oswald shrugging off his jacket, but seeing no point in bothering with the rest. Jim, quicker and more shameless, letting his pants pool around his ankles, bending over and spreading his legs, telling Oswald to get on with it. 

But this, he wants to draw out, to savor. He doesn't doubt that Jim's right, that they're already on borrowed time. 

And then Jim pulls back, moving his lips to just above Oswald's neck, words practically spoken against skin as he asks, "Can I--" 

"By all means." 

Jim's lips trail kisses down he side of his neck. Then across his collarbone, then the dip at the base of his throat. And it's too much and not nearly enough, and he hears a whine, but it takes a few seconds for him to process that that's him making that undignified noise. 

And then Jim's pulling back, and without his touch, the whole situation comes rushing back in harsh clarity. How he's sitting there, naked in the bath, embarrassingly hard already, and apparently he's done something wrong, and who knows if the whole thing's off now, if that was the jolt that Jim needed to come back to his senses. 

His breathing's still a mess, but he tries to at least keep his face neutral as he stares at Jim, waits for him to offer some explanation. 

"I-- the tile's killing my knees," he says, huffing a laugh. "Not that that's my biggest concern right now," he holds up a hand, placating, "but I'm gonna need to be able to chase after suspects tomorrow. Can we-- can I either join you in the bath, or have us both relocate to the bed?" 

And Oswald's giggling. He can't help it. The comedown from his nerves, the relief, the sheer absurdity of the situation. 

"It's _your_ bath," he says, and then, "But you can come in. Although I told you before," he looks away, color rising in his cheeks again, "it's not going to be-- and I highly doubt that would be logistically possible with this much space--" 

"I know, I know. That's fine." He looks up again, sees Jim's made short work of his shirt, tie, and undershirt and is starting in on his pants. "Still enough space for me to give you a hand job, though. If you want." 

Oswald's quite proud of the scathing look he levels at Jim, considering the circumstances. "No, I want you to do a fan dance with the bath towel. Get over here." 

" _Pushy_ ," Jim says, but his pupils are blown, and he's already kicking off his pants and moving over to the tub. "Move over, then." Oswald is more than happy to oblige and let Jim ease into the tub behind him. Perhaps it's just the way things seem when viewed through the haze of arousal currently clouding his judgement, but it just feels _right_ to feel Jim there, a strong and solid presence there to ground him. 

And then Jim wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulls him snug against his chest. Just enough pressure to keep their bodies touching, but not enough that Oswald couldn't move away if he tried. Not that he has any intention of doing so right now. 

_Home._ This feels like coming home. The sentiment pops into his head unbidden, certainly without asking his permission to be there. And he's definitely not ready to examine _that_ train of thought too closely, so instead he refocuses his attention. "I was promised a hand job...?" 

Jim presses a kiss to his shoulder instead of answering. And he supposes that might be acceptable, as well. 

And then Jim's trailing a hand down his chest, over his ribs. His hand stops when he reaches Oswald's hip, fingers splaying over bone and the skin of his thigh. "How do you want this?" 

"While we're still young, for preference." 

"Fast?" Jim's fingers flex on his hip, and Oswald gives up altogether on trying to steady his breathing. "Slow? Give me something to go on here." 

"Slow, I think." This is going to be over embarrassing quickly otherwise. 

He leans his head back to rest against Jim. Tries not to think about how it fits perfectly there, in the crook between his shoulder and neck. 

Which suddenly isn't very difficult at all, because Jim's wrapping a hand around his cock, dragging his hand from tip to base. Slowly, experimentally, touch light. And then repeating the action, pace still tortuously slow. Forming any coherent thoughts beyond oh _god_ and James, _James_. That's a challenge. 

He bites his lip. Because he's fairly sure Jim's entirely eroded his brain-to-mouth filter alongside his self-control. 

And maybe it's just his impatience, but he could swear Jim's hand is _slowing down_. For fuck's sake. "Not _that_ slow." 

He's not sure what he expects from Jim-- amused laughter, maybe-- but he can feel Jim's pulse through his chest, picking up speed as soon as the words are out. And that's when several things fall into place. 

He licks his lips. "I think I've had quite enough of slow, actually." 

He hears Jim's breath hitch, and that's all it takes to confirm his suspicions. Sometime when he's not half-mad with want, he plans to take full advantage of this new information. 

For now, he'll settle for ensuring he doesn't spontaneously combust before Jim gets him off. 

He aims for his usual imperiousness. "Pick up the pace, then." 

Jim's quick to oblige. But his grip is still loose, and it's still not enough. "More pressure. I'm sure you've got it in you, and I won't _break_." 

The rush is probably in equal parts from finally, _finally_ getting the perfect amount of contact and from the heady knowledge that he can ask for whatever he wants and Jim will give it to him. Freely. Gladly. And will _enjoy it_ , enjoy the asking nearly as much as the giving. 

"That's better." His voice sounds about the same as he feels, raw and wrecked, and normally he'd feel some discomfort over that honesty. At the moment, he's too far gone to care. 

He's close enough that he can practically taste release, and yet not quite there yet. "God, James, I need--" 

"Yeah?" 

"More. Faster." 

"Like this?" 

" _God_ , James, yes, just like that, that's perfect," and then, "James, I'm going to--" 

Jim doesn't slow the pace, works him straight through the orgasm. Presses a kiss to his neck as he comes down. Wraps his arms around him, holds him until his breath evens out. 

When he comes back to himself, he realizes he's likely left Jim hanging. "Do you want me to--" 

"Maybe after dinner. I'm starving." He can if he feel the lethargy of the afterglow clinging to him like the beads of sweat to his body that he had no chance to pay attention to until now. It puts his mind, usually an efficient machine, at a disadvantage, and it takes him longer than usual to parse Jim's words. 

With anyone else, he might take that as a slight, an offer rebuffed. But with Jim, painfully brusque and blunt, he thinks he can safely assume the mans means exactly what he says, no more and no less. 

There was also, he realizes belatedly, a dinner invitation cleverly tucked in there. 

"We can make dinner come to us, if that makes any difference. There's a great Thai place around the corner that does carry-out," he adds. "If you don't have plans tonight." An easy out. One that Oswald won't be taking advantage of. 

"I like pad see ew." 

"Great. I'll call it in." Jim leans over the edge of the tub, grabs his pants, empties his phone into his hand. Orders their food, getting spicy gai ra-yong for himself and fried bananas for desert, without leaving the tub. 

They don't talk much as they wait for the order. But there's no need. Just this, just Jim holding him like this, is enough. More than enough. 

And then Jim's phone rings, and he swears and stumbles out of the bath. Looks at the caller ID and says their food must be ready. Grabs a towel and then, still dripping all over the place, glances over to where he'd tossed his shirt and pants, now a wrinkled mess. 

Oswald can't help it. He's laughing again. "Shut up," Jim says, but there's not hear in his words, and he's smiling, too. "I'm gonna go find something I can actually wear, and then I'll be back in ten with dinner." 

The door clicks shut behind him. 

Oswald lies back, head against the wall tile again. The water's grown colder, tepid now and doing fuckall for his leg. But somehow his leg feels a bit better already. 

Not that he won't try to needle some Percocet out Jim when he comes back with food, but the pain's now more like indistinct shouting than a siren wail. 

He is clever, he can usually see things coming. But this? This he'd never dreamed of, this had crashed into him like the car compacter in the junk yard had threatened to when Maroni had realized he was being played. Left him breathless and heart racing and utterly surprised. 

Not that he's complaining. 

He lets a big, ridiculous smile spread across his face. And for the first time, he truly feels like the king of Gotham. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *John Legend's "All of You" playing indistinctly in background*
> 
> You guys, this was just meant to be a 1K drabble about hand jobs in the bathtub. Like, a short PwP fic because that scene was supposed to be in another story, and then it wouldn't fit. But about 4K later, it looks like some plot snuck in there, too.


End file.
